


Dear Diary

by ThisPeep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim and Sherlock aren't non-con, M/M, This fic is basically just a collection of journal entries from Jim, and a few homicidal thoughts, and it's never anything thats explicitly stated but it's to do with Jim's past, lots of suicidal thoughts, may be more to come? im not sure, oh and Jim has a cat, this is not a happy fic basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim doesn't have a skull to talk to, or a John Watson to use as a sounding board, but he has a journal.<br/>And Jim's always felt more comfortable writing things down than talking to people.<br/>Well, at least since he was thirteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Logs Set. 1

Everytime I see him I was want to tear him into little pieces, finally figure out how every little bit of him works. Crack him open and pour myself inside, or maybe vise versa. Let him wash over me completely and take over all my senses, all of my thoughts, although sometimes I think he’s done that already.

I think everything would be easier if I killed him. Slit his throat, felt his warm blood spray over my hands and chest, feel his life leave him with a gasp of surprise. I don’t know how to process him, so I should just get rid of him. There’s no way to resolve these ~~feelings~~ ~~emotions~~ ~~urges~~ ~~thoughts~~ there’s no other way to resolve them.

I want to learn him.

I want to kill him.

Sort of think I want to fuck him too. But that’s not nearly as important.

Would learning him require killing him?

I don’t think I could ever learn him enough, anyway, if I’m to be honest with myself. I’d always want to know more. 

His views on every colour, what he thinks of one star compared to another, what he thinks about when he smells rain or smoke or rose perfume, if he has any traumatic memories about parks, what his least favorite but tolerable breakfood is, how he takes his baths and if he prefers baths to showers. I want to know what types of white wine he thinks goes best with what meals, how much drugs it takes for him to just hit that feeling of bliss, how well he can swordfight drunk, what he feels when he takes the deep breath in the morning

I want to know every little thought that enters his mind and tear it into reasons, explanations, memories, senses, views, feelings.

I want to make him raw and help him heal back up until I die.

I want to cover him in dirt to see how he looks and clean him up.

I want to taste every centimeter of his skin everyday. 

I want to curl up against him at night and fall asleep in his arms.

I want to feel his warmth surrounding me when I wake up. I want to see his first smile of the day, when he’s still mostly asleep and a split second away from yawning, but can’t help a small grin when he wakes up next to me.

Christ, I want to catch him stealing glances at me reading when he’s meant to be watching an experiment, I want him to blush when he realizes I’ve noticed, I want him to kiss me when I beckon him over.

I want him to get distracted by me all the time, like I do by him. I want to take over his thoughts. I want him to forget John and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, only to see me, only to think of me. I don’t want him to care about anyone else. I want to be his only weakness. 

I don’t want him to let himself be locked away from the world. To be immersed entirely in luxury and never interact with people again, only me. I could take care of everything. I could leave when I had to but always, always come back to him as soon as I can, entertain him and interrogate him.

I want that more than I want to kill him.

There’s absolutely no way to resolve everything that encompases Sherlock’s existance.

Does that mean I should kill him, or that I finally have a reason to not kill myself?

* * *

If one more person thinks that I’m dating Sebastian I am going to shred him into little pieces and bake him into a heart shaped cake.

* * *

The fourteenth is coming up.

Sebastian is acting all twitchy around me. I think he thinks I’m going to try and kill myself again this year.

He doesn’t even know what happened.

Just that it was bad. 

Ha.

That’s what he said, actually, when I told him to go away because he didn’t understand.

“I know it was bad.”

‘Bad’.

_Bad._

I’m not entirely sure in what mental world of his it counted as only _bad_ but I suppose I have to forgive the poor dear, he really couldn’t understand it. 

And hell if I’m going to tell him what happened, anyway.

* * *

I’m not sure why I even bother to try to sleep the night before. All I get is nightmares.

Bye.

* * *

I had to go a week without this journal. Do you know how annoying that is? How many thoughts I’ve forgotten? 

But nooo, Sebastian wouldn’t let me have the journal while I was in the hospital. Something about punishment, or not wanting to me to obsess when I’m meant to be resting.

Apparently he actually expected me to stay there for longer. Ha. I barely agreed to the week. Maybe if he’d let me have a journal I would have stayed longer, but as it was I could only even use my phone when Sebastian was nearby.

I don’t know what Sherlock’s been up while I’ve been gone.

Sebastian was taking care of jobs, which means that there weren’t any particularly fun ones.

Sure, Sebastian does fine in control of my network, but everything is boring. All the jobs get done, mistakes are fixed, but it’s not like he does silly, fun things.

One time I replaced the Mona Lisa with a sketch of it by a toddler. That was fun.

An entire bloody week, though. I haven’t even gotten home yet, I’m in a car.

I hope Sherlock’s been fine without me.

Actually, no, I don’t. I hope that he crumbled into boredom and realized how much he actually does need me and finally comes round to do everything I say if it means I keep giving him cases.

Hm. That’s horribly selfish of me.

Oh well.

* * *

He missed me.

I think I’ve replayed the tapes of his face when he realized it was one of my cases at least thirty times.

He just looks so thrilled!

I sort of want to sink my fingers into his chest, see how he looks then. If he’d be pleased that he was at least being killed by an equal.

Hey, at least I’m aware of my creepiness.

* * *

Why I do I remember so perfectly. I was drugged. I was thirteen. I was trying so hard to be anywhere other than where I was.

God, I trusted him so much. When he kissed me I thought everything would change. He'd cancel the rest of my conversion therapy, tell off my mother. If my psychologist was queer, certainly he couldn't want to keep going to stop me from being so, as well?

Then I'd thought I'd had too much to drink

and then i

i

christim going to throw up again

* * *

I feel so tingly.

I saw Sherlock today. Got to tease him about his most recent failed case. The tension was so strong I could hardly breathe, it was glorious.

Oh, and I took quite a bit of some experimental drugs. That may affect the feeling as well.

Better than feeling like slitting my wrists, though, I suppose, so I’m not entirely sure why Sebastian seems so put out.

* * *

I hate drug hangovers.

My head is killing me and all of my skin feels like it’s sliding off. Maybe I should just tear it off. I want to tear it off. Pull of all of my skin, hear it snap at it comes apart, feel all my nerves scream and burn in protest, feel cells in my body die.

It’s stupid ones of the ways I tried to go out was a gunshot. I don’t want to die that quickly. But it was an emergency, and the closest I’ve managed to get so far, so I suppose something can be said for it.

It’s tragic, though. If I don’t try a fast death Sebastian’s senses will go off, or however he always comes home early, and forces me to live. But dying slowly is so nice to feel. 

Everything slowly shuts down, the world becomes more muted, a sort of chill starts spreading from the tips of my limbs, everything gets heavier and heavier until I can’t move at all, can barely breathe…

It’s such a pleasure, to die slowly. It’s an art. I’d be the most gorgeous painting.

I can just imagine what I’d look like, all my blood drained from my wrists, spilling onto the floor. Pretty, for once in my life. Cold and pale and beautiful.

* * *

Hello again. Sorry for that brief break, but I’d lost you for a little while. Resorted to writing on looseleaf or Sherlock.

Admittedly, Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind me scribbling ideas down on his back. Giggles now and then, though, turns out he’s rather ticklish.

Alright, a few things have changed. I am no longer _quite_ as suicidal, at least I haven’t felt the urge to kill myself within the past few hours, and Sherlock’s taken to staying at my house for extended periods of time.

It’s indescribable, I’m afraid. He’s just so entirely perfect, and brilliant, and I fear I fall rather short in comparison to him.

Not intelligence-wise, of course, we’ve both figured out I’m smarter than him, but with everything else.

I’m a very clever mess of a man and he’s a moderately clever perfection of a mine.

I’ve gotten to bite him, though, which was heavenly. Get him completely marked up, and he certainly didn’t object. I’d say he even enjoyed it. Very much so, actually. He looks like he’s mine, now.

No data system could link the teeth marks to my dental records, but they’re still mine.

And he left a few marks of his own. They still hurt when touched.

So naturally I’ve taken to pressing on them whenever I can. It’s a lovely sting. Reminds me of Sherlock and, well, I have always enjoyed pain.

Well, when I say _always_...

* * *

I hate this.

I hate it I hate it I hateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIhateitIha

Alright, alright, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

I’m okay.

Except for my complete lack of being able to verbalise anything fucking useful at all.

I tried, I did actually try, to tell Sherlock why I panic when he pins me down at all during sex, or while I can’t stand it when he tells me I’m pretty in bed. But it didn’t come out. It felt like trying to force a bloody brick up my throat, felt like I was trying to make myself do something I knew I’d regret, and I just couldn’t.

It was so frustrating, I couldn’t even explain to him that I couldn’t get myself to explain something else. I ended up

well

just sort of shutting down a little bit.

Curled up against Sherlock and didn’t speak for a few hours. Don’t remember doing it for more than a few moments, but I somehow doubt Sherlock found the time to change all the clocks if my recollection is true.

But if the hours thing is true, I don’t understand why he stayed.

Should've just left. I was being stupid and nonreactive. How annoying would that have been to lay next to? He didn’t even have a book with him. Could have left for just a few moments to go get a bloody book.

Could have just left entirely. I wouldn’t have been surprised.

He didn’t, though.

Why the fuck didn’t he?

* * *

Sherlock keeps fawning over me, now. Every time I have a flashback, or even every time I just tense, he always stops what he’s doing and makes sure I’m okay.

It’s far too overwhelming. Sometimes I start going back to the idea of slitting his throat.

* * *

Sherlock has finally encountered Tux. She’s terribly adverse to strangers, but it seems like she has officially decided Sherlock is safe. Or maybe he’s just here often enough Tux doesn’t care. Either way, it was fun to watch him jump in surprise when she hopped down from a ceiling bar and into his lap.

Apparently I should have told him I had a cat.

As though the two didn’t end up snuggling into each other for hours on end.

* * *

Tux has taken to sleeping with me and Sherlock in the bed.

Right now her and Sherlock are asleep. They’re laying next to me-- more specifically, Tux is laying on top of Sherlock and making sleeping purring noises.

Probably mostly due to the fact that the she’s in sunlight right now.

They look so peaceful.

I can’t imagine I look like that when I sleep.

Too many nightmares.

* * *

Dear Jim,

I’ll have you know, for a fact, that you look absolutely gorgeous when you sleep.

\- Sherlock

* * *

Idiot.

I swear that man will be the death of me.


	2. Logs Set. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, Jim already knew life isn't always perfect.

Sherlock’s has decided to experiment with me and my journal.

Apparently, because sometimes I become rather focused when I write, he thinks that being able to write will help block out any sort of triggering events.

But before testing that, for my ~~safety~~ mental health, he’s making sure that after a while of writing I do actually become oblivious to what’s around me.

Now I keep having what’s around me brought to the center of my attention, because I’m meant to be ignoring it. Basically psychology. Thanks Sherlock.

 ~~Although~~ He said he knew it would happen, but he didn’t want to experiment on me without my consent. Which I suppose is an admirable enough reason for me to allow the annoyance to pass.

 ~~Whanv~~ I’m starting to notice that whenever I get drawn into what I’m ~~doing~~ writing I remember that’s the point and then my attention is right back to everything around me.

I’m also noticing I’m running out of things to write about, now that I’m meant to.

I’m using a pen. Couldn’t find a pencil.

I’m using Sherlock as a pillow. He’s really warm.

His breathing is ridiculously steady. You’d think the man would cough or clear his throat as much as everyone else, but no. Just the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

Even his breathing is deep.

Turns out if nudge his shoulder with my head he’ll start to run his hand through my hair absentmindedly. 

 

I think I’ve seen Tux do that and have the same reaction.

Oh god I’m Sherlock’s cat.

When did this happen.

No, no, I’m being silly. If anything, he’s my kitten. My pretty little kitten.

On the topic of Sherlock, I really should record more about him. I’m worried I’ll forget things.

His lips aren’t soft. I don’t know why I assumed they would be, thinking about it. He hardly takes particularly good care of himself, doesn’t stay properly hydrated. His lips are chapped and dry.

Easily bruised. They get swollen and red and very, very biteable.

They feel weird on my neck, too. I’m picky about who I sleep with, and honestly my standards for intelligence are too high to ever get me laid outside of Sherlock, so it’s always been looks before.

I’m so used to soft lips and skin.

Sherlock is so real, human. His lips are chapped and his hands aren’t smooth and he has scars like I do, a small tattoo on his side, his hair isn’t perfectly soft and sometimes its far too much. It’s overwhelming, how clearly he exists on a fundamental level within the world.

The soft people always felt like concepts. Pleasurable concepts with a few imperfections, maybe, but they never seemed real.

Sherlock reminds me I’m alive. I’ve lived. Everything is real.

Not always the best thing for someone who tries to escape from reality most of the time, I suppose. Or maybe the best thing I could h

* * *

hope for.

* * *

I was interrupted. Apparently I got wrapped up, experiment a success, Sherlock managed to slip out from underneath me and leave for a moment, making some noise in the kitchen and then returning to tilt my head up and kiss me.

Experiment a success, but one that has me concerned. I didn’t realize I was so vulnerable when I wrote.

I mean, I knew time always seemed to contract around me, but I thought if something were to happen I’d be aware of it.

What if someone comes in while I’m writing.

What if someone holds me down and injects me with something, making me useless and ~~fuc~~ tortures me to death. What if Shelrock and Sebastians dont arrive in tiem and they take advantage of me all becuase i was too warpped up in my own damn journal just wriitng away obliviously becuase i cant even fucking pay attention to anyting if i have some empty pages in f

* * *

Episodes.

I think I hate that word. 

Like it has a designated time length and when it’s over everyone can just carry on as usual.

Like Sherlock didn’t have to change his shirt because part of the chest was soaked, like none of me hurts from how much dry-heaving I did. Like I didn’t terrify Tux. Like I currently have the energy to do anything more than write and sip at the tea Sherlock left for me before collapsing for a few moments from exhaustion.

At least I got Sherlock to leave once I’d stopped ~~cr~~. 

Alright. Goodnight for now.

Oh, Tux is back. She’s curled up against my legs. Won’t be moving them for a little while.

* * *

Massages are infinitely better when the person giving you a massage has the tendency to kiss your back near continuously.

* * *

I think I like writing with pens more than pencils. More crossing out words, but it writes a lot smoother.

* * *

I miss writing in you.

I’ve been trying to stop though.

Too dangerous. I get too paranoid when I write. Even now I keep glancing around every other word.

I think Sherlock regrets doing the experiment in the first place. He keeps trying to encourage me to write, to let myself get wrapped up in it like I used to.

Says it was good for me.

I can’t, though. 

I’m still looking over my shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock’s convinced me to write while he’s around. Because he’s “very perceptive and will obviously notice anything that happens, so you don’t have to worry about being caught off guard because I’ll notify you.”

Yeah, he’s good at sounding really logical. 

He’s taken to wrapping around me in bed. While we’re both clothed, mind you. His chest is wonderfully warm.

I can just tilt my head to the side and kiss him.

Like that.

Ha.

Now he’s nuzzling me, the soft git. Usually does after I kiss him, if we’re lying down.

Makes me feel very warm.

* * *

I have some bad news for you, journal.

Between all my entries and mathematical scribbles and coded scheme ideas, you’re almost filled up. You’re soon to join a few other journals in a box.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a very nice box, but nonetheless a box. Won’t be used anymore.

And probably not read until I die.

Sherlock’s gotten me a new journal. He hasn’t told me yet, because it’s a surprise. I’ve no clue what it looks like or where it is, if it’s even arrived, but he seems sure I’ll like it.

I’m sure I will, too.

* * *

I do like it.

It has constellations on the front, and it’s textured. Very nice paper inside-- lined, soft, no flourishes in the corners or sides to take up room. Has a little slip for holding a pen. Back has a very small pocket, to hold extra papers. Or anything thin enough to fit, I suppose.

It’s absolutely perfect.

You only have a few lines left, I’m afraid.

Goodbye, journal.

Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel surprisingly melancholy over the journal being filled

**Author's Note:**

> oh the angst


End file.
